


To Serve the King

by sundayrain26



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Mind Control, Multi, Stockholm Syndrome, loki clones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundayrain26/pseuds/sundayrain26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Loki didn't just use Clint for intel." Loki takes full advantage of his control over Clint. Slight dub-con/non-con. Hawkeye/Loki. One-shot turned chapter fic. Inspired by a drawing of LadyNorthstar's on deviantArt/tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty~! This little piece of shameless smut is brought to you by a fabulous drawing by LadyNorthstar on deviantArt/tumblr.
> 
> http://ladynorthstarkinkycorner.tumblr.com/post/22678732045/ladynorthstar-to-serve-the-king-i-was
> 
>  
> 
> I was inspired, asked permission to write a ficlet and away I went. This is the end result. I hope you like it. :3

“Oh Clinton..”

The smooth, softly accented voice breaks through his silent reverie. He blinks once and slowly turns his head just slightly toward the source of the voice. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s aware that he should be unnerved at how easily Loki was able to sneak up on him, but he can’t focus on the thought enough for it to bother him.

“Would you join me? I’d like to have a word with you, little hawk.” The words come out with a soft smirk. Loki watches long enough to see the man rise and begin to descend from his isolated perch. He turns on his heel and moves down a hallway to a dark room containing a stone throne upon a platform surrounded by long stone steps. He can hear the near silent steps of the human trailing behind him. He seats himself in his throne, regal and poised, his sceptre at his side.

Clint stops two steps down from Loki, quietly regarding him with faintly glowing blue eyes. The god crooks a finger at him, beckoning him forward. His head tilts ever so slightly but his feet carry him forward without hesitation. When he stops again, he’s toe-to-toe with his king.

“So, my little hawk. What have you to tell me about your friends? You’re quite close to the little red-haired one are you not?”

“Nat?” He blinks, a fleeting moment of clarity flashing through his mind. “Natasha Romanoff?” The haze settles back in, thicker than before, just as quickly as it had cleared.

A soft encouragement, “Yes,” fills his ears as a lone hand reaches toward him. “Come, my dear.”

Without a single thought, he fluidly slides forward to kneel over the god’s lap. A thin hand touches his waist, glides up to cup the side of his neck. It’s almost as if his mind grays out. He’s aware of his mouth moving, steadily spilling secret after secret, sharing things he’d sworn would never pass his lips. The only thing to show for his distress is a faintly furrowed brow. Two hands are upon him now, caressing his body, bringing about a faint flush over his skin. His stomach rolls and twists tightly as he mindlessly betrays his best friend of every diminutive detail she had confided in him. He’d be physically ill if he had half a mind to be.

He’s vaguely aware of his pants being undone and pushed down. Oh – he hadn’t noticed that Loki’s attention left him half hard. He pauses in his verbal tirade for a beat, a flash of shock and shame burning through him before the fog swallows it whole as cool fingers stroke between his butt cheeks. It’s an unfamiliar sensation but is profoundly mesmerizing.

Or perhaps it was just the mind control thing. He didn’t have the facilities to tell.

God, his mouth is still moving. He knows a full lifetime of tales after all. A finger plays at his hole, circling before pressing in. His words finally stop and his body works on impulse to expel the intrusion.

“Sh, shhh.. relax little hawk,” Loki croons sweetly, his unoccupied hand stroking soothing patterns along the exposed skin of his hip.

Clint twitches faintly but has no way to refuse; no hope to avoid anything wanted of him. His body obeys and allows the digit to slip in and out with ease. A second finger joins the first and it’s as though the message to resist is lost between a small corner of his mind and the control he held over his body–except the control was really Loki’s, there was no denying that. Against every fiber of his being, his cock twitches and continues to gorge with blood. He’s not sure if it’s the humiliation bubbling beneath the surface or his traitorous arousal fueling the flush warming his body.

His eyes narrow when Loki’s fingers stop fucking him and he’s pushed to his feet.

“Remove your boots.”

He readily complies, tossing them aside.

“Good boy.. now kneel.”

His body lowers itself steadily, face devoid of emotion. He watches passively as Loki casually opens his trousers, letting his hips tilt into a slight slouch as he pulls himself free.

When he speaks again, it’s in a slightly husky tone, “Lick me.”

Clint’s tongue traces his own lips as he shuffles forward, his hands landing on Loki’s thighs. Even through the miasma in his mind, he studies the organ protruding before him; it’s quite long with a decent girth, a flared, pink head and delicately bulging veins. His mouth opens, thankfully not to spill more sworn secrets; however, his tiny glimmer of consciousness shudders at the task set before him. He gives a broad swipe of his tongue then another, root to tip. A surprisingly gentle hand fingers through his soft blonde hair, guiding his mouth down. He obliges the silent direction and closes his lips over firm flesh, playing his tongue over the silky smooth skin, hollowing his cheeks and slowly bobbing his head. The cool hand curls around the base of his skull and begins to push and pull, setting the pace and depth. Clint’s nose brushes the patch of soft black curls and he gags lightly as his throat is filled with warm, throbbing flesh.

By the time Loki releases him, he has spit dripping down his chin, swollen lips and a pretty red face. He stands at his king’s direction his pants falling. He pulls his right leg free before he is guided back into the god’s lap, black pants hanging hooked on his left knee. Loki slouches further and places a hand on Clint’s hip. He holds himself steady, lines up with the human’s waiting entrance and physically drags the man down on to his erection.

Clint’s legs quake and give out, leaving him straddling Loki and further impaling himself. A low groan tears past his vocal cords and the god sighs blissfully. He caresses Clint’s face, murmuring, “Little hawk.. you’re going to fuck yourself on my cock. Until I come.” His free hand suddenly has the sceptre in it and he’s bracing it around behind Clint’s lower back. Without a word, he shifts to gain leverage and begins to lift off and plunge back down.

Sweat begins to form over his entire body and his legs quiver with the repetitive motion. Soft moans bring his gaze to the man beneath him. He is lounging, his right hand curled into a fist and supporting his jaw while the other maintains its grip on his staff. A slight smile graces the god’s features and his eyes are closed. “Such a good boy,” he gasps softly.

The irritation within him builds and he’s screaming in his mind, struggling to show even the slightest sign of resistance, of disapproval. He twists his torso, one hand reaching for balance, landing on Loki’s shoulder, the other grasping the sceptre digging into his back. Determined to be done, Clint quickens his pace, his breath coming in little huffs with the exertion, toes curling. The slight change in position has Loki’s dick brushing his prostate with each down stroke and he’s once again brought to the realization that he is painfully aroused. His cock is an angry purple and leaking all over his king’s fine clothing–a part of him is quite pleased by this.

Loki finally opens his eyes, moves his hand to clutch at Barton’s hip and begins to thrust up in earnest. “Filthy boy,” he grunts, the green in his eyes nearly swallowed up by his pupils. His body trembles, tenses and a wet warmth fills Clint. He’s still bouncing up and down, grinding against the god’s narrow hips as his balls tighten. A high keening sound stutters from his throat and he comes all over Loki’s torso and face.

They slump down together, Loki cradling his latest toy against him, a ghost of a grin pulling at his lips as he practically purrs against the human’s ear, “You serve your king well.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took me long enough to finish.. Several months actually. :/
> 
> Also, after holding a poll at FF.net (over the several months mentioned above), it was decided by readers and myself that our dear Clint is heading for a case of Stockholm syndrome. I hope I was able to convey some signs here and there of that beginning to emerge.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The following days form a kind of pattern. Clint wakes from a restless sleep, his glowing blue eyes staring blankly before he can gather himself enough to get up and tend to his humanly needs before reporting to Loki. He contributes mindlessly to strategic discussions. For the most part, they're at a stand still as they gather numbers to carry out their king's plans. And of course Selvig is working at an exhausting pace with the tesseract. Clint doesn't really understand all the scientific babble. He doesn't have to.

Even through the haze his mind has become, he notices that Loki tends to keep him close. Closer than the rest of his subjects. To have that kind of attention after the kind of life he's led is a bit of a novelty. He does Loki's bidding without batting an eye. He's almost forgotten that this isn't truly his mind. Not entirely.

Each day, once everything is tended to and Loki is somewhat content with their progress, they retreat alone. Loki has a space that he seems to have magicked into a room for himself. That is the only possible explanation for the furnishings. Everything in the room is a striking contrast to the bare underground warehouse setting of their base. Clint thinks the stuff looks like something out of a museum or a castle but made of magnificent materials. Glass and gold and silk. It's not to his taste at all but he's not in his right mind anyhow so it doesn't really matter.

He's not sure what time of day it is, there's not much to tell by in this compound. Next to no windows and they hardly ever venture above ground. It must be late though as they enter the lavish room. He's two steps behind Loki and he's almost used to the door automatically clicking shut without a single touch.

Loki sighs raggedly. This is the only time he ever even hints at any kind of weakness. Clint is humbled by the apparent openness.

Whoever his king is working with has been wearing him thin. He's seen him in those trance-like states; it's when his mind seems to be the clearest. He's also seen Loki break out of such trances with fright-filled eyes and a cold sweat. It actually tugs at his heart to see Loki so distressed. There is the faintest glimmer in his mind chanting that the crazy coot deserves it, but it seems to grow quieter with each passing occurrence.

"Hawk," Loki calls softly, drawing him in like a beacon.

"Yea boss?" he inquires, coming to attention before his king. He knows what is coming.

Loki doesn't say a word, just reaches for him, pulling him effortlessly forward like a magnet attracts iron. He places a rather chaste kiss soundly upon the side of Clint's neck and with a flick of his fingers, their clothes dissolve away. Handy thing, that magic. "What can I do for you, my king?" he murmurs reverently. Hang on, was that right? A corner of his mind questions just how appropriate his willingness is but he swats it away even as the ever present fog encompasses the thought. Of course this was right. He was made to serve Loki.

The god smiles softly, genuinely, "Mmm, just let me enjoy you, my dear." His long, thin hands are already exploring his body, tracing scars and muscles alike.

Soft lips kiss along his collarbone and up his throat. "Anything you want," Clint agrees breathily on a sigh, lids fluttering shut over glowing pupils as his chin tips up. That annoying voice clamors with dissent amid the swirling haze. His skin prickles with goose bumps at the chill in the room and teasing fingertips ghosting elaborate paths down his back. Cool lips seal over his own, initiating an intense but sadly brief kiss.

Clint moves to follow but Loki is already travelling south. He's not sure how much of the fog is the tesseract and how much is lust as his king's beautifully perfect mouth is nibbling at his length. His callused hands stroke and grip at Loki's shoulders. Glowing eyes are enthralled by the sight of himself being swallowed whole and then the sensation has them rolling back into his head with a groan. He grunts and pets softly at long black hair, absently amazed that such a regal figure would honor him so. Delicate hands accompany his mouth, toying with soft skin, palming heavy balls and gradually creeping toward his entrance.

Clint instantly relaxes, familiar with the routine and trained to respond. He doesn't pay any heed to the uncertainty pawing at his consciousness. Marginally cooler fingers — he has yet to figure that one out, only that Loki seems to run at a lower than average temperature — press inside, magically slick. He can feel Loki's free hand playing over the curve of his hip, his mouth still laving at him lazily. Fingers caress his side, curl around to his chest and feather-light kisses dance across his shoulders. Wait.. Kisses. He glances down to see Loki still occupied with his erection. There are an unknown pair of hands upon him, hands that must be attached to the mouth at his neck. Clint jerks back, knocking the stranger behind him to the ground. He turns just in time to see a mirror image of his king fade away into wisps of green smoke.

"Huh?" A rough exclamation of surprise escapes him as he vigilantly scans the room, eyes wide, body shaking with adrenaline.

Loki is on his feet in seconds, looking a little shell shocked himself. His hands flutter towards Clinton, seeming hesitant even to touch. "Shh, sh, didn't meant to frighten you, my hawk," he reassures quietly.

Clint's eyes focus sharply upon Loki, his chest heaving. The god's hands finally come to rest on either side of his neck. The touch alone calms him, the panic being swallowed by a comforting blanket of mist in his mind.

"Better now?" Loki asks needlessly. Clint nods silently, a single hand resting against his king's arm, just a touch to ground himself. "Good.. Watch." Loki moves to stand beside Clint, one arm encircling him. His other hand waves, fingers curling and from the very same green smoke emerges another Loki. The clone stares at Clint with a lustful gaze. "Just a bit of magic."

Barton tilts his head, glancing from one Loki to the other. Magic. His knowledge of what it entailed seems to grow several times a day. So. Loki can make what.. clones of himself? Mirror images? Doppelgangers maybe? Okay. He could roll with that. "Copy that," he murmurs.

"Let us embrace you little hawk."

He's not sure which of them spoke. Can the clone speak? The notion becomes irrelevant because now there's a Loki on his knees before him and another at his back. Four hands touching, two mouths showering affection. It's almost too much for his fog-filled brain to handle. He's not even sure which one is the clone and which is real. Or perhaps they're both real; he doesn't have the brain power to analyze that at the moment. He's hardly cognizant that the uncertainty alone should have him on edge.

Hands are sliding up his abdomen and he stares down through heavy lids. Loki — clone Loki? or is it real Loki? ah, it doesn't matter! — slithers gracefully up, his own cock brushing Clint's. Long fingers caress his face and he croons softly, "Would you prefer something like this?" Loki's form shimmers, his face growing somewhat softer, hair longer and.. Clint blinks. Ample breasts grow before his eyes and farther down, narrow hips grow wider and rounder and the obvious erection that had been there moments prior is gone. It is a perfect render of Loki only with exceptional feminine features. Clint's mouth goes dry. Two archery-callused hands cup soft breasts, even as male Loki nips at his ear lobe and strokes his length from behind.

"Do you like me in this form?" she purrs, very much Loki's voice but softer somehow.

Clint's pupils swell to encompass almost the entirety of his irises as he nods dumbly and lets his hands slip down her curves. He can feel Loki's cock pressing against his backside, shifting to penetrate. He absently spreads his legs slightly in response, enthralled with the lovely lady before him. His toes curl as he's breached, but his hands never stutter as he cups her mound and traces his fingertips along her.

"Yeah.. you want to fuck me, pretty hawk?" she coos, nuzzling the side of his face, her wavy locks tickling his sensitized flesh.

"Yes ma'am." Hmm, ma'am.. Was that right? Well, Loki was in the shape of a female so it made sense. If he didn't think about it too closely. The fog meanders through his train of thoughts and he embraces its presence. His awareness grows hazy between sensation and lust and the ever present mist in his mind. It seems the next second — or perhaps it truly was the next second; with Loki one could never entirely be certain — the three of them are at the end of the massive bed and she's sprawled out before him, legs open, inviting.

Glowing pupils blown, he shuffles forward, Loki keeping flush against his back. He grabs her by her thighs, dragging her to the edge of the bed and, without a moments hesitation, sinks inside of her. She gasps and long-nailed fingers dig into his forearms. The pain is a vague spark that fades into the background as the Loki behind him pulls away and thrusts back in.

Clint bites his lower lip with a groan. One hand remains curled around lady Loki's thigh while the other roams her torso, tweaking her nipples and reveling in soft flesh. Damn, she's gorgeous writhing like that, almost as gorgeous as.. his thoughts skid to a halt. As gorgeous as Nat. A spark of lucidity flashes through and the realization that he is presently fucking and being fucked by Loki makes his stomach sour. Although, his mind argues, Loki has been caring for him quite diligently. As quickly as the clarity surfaces, it is once more engulfed by a heavy fog.

He grunts, his mind lost to sensation. What had he just been thinking? Couldn't be too important.

Loki is doing all of the work, dragging the both of them back and forth, all he has to do is hang on. His back arches, head resting upon man-Loki's shoulder, a hand on each of their thighs.

The Loki in front of him is moaning incessantly as the one behind him mutters all variety of filth in his ear. He's not going to last much longer like this. He tries to convey as much, but the words stick in his throat; the only sounds to escape are gasps and groans.

As if he knows — and who is he kidding, of course he knows — Loki picks up the pace and adjusts his angle. Barton yelps with surprise as his orgasm thunders through him without warning. Both Lokis are still moving and he's vaguely aware of the fact that they are coming simultaneously, clenching around him, milking him for all he's worth and emptying into him all at once. A dull aftershock pulses through him, leaving him shuddering as he gasps for air.

He feels the Loki before him sit up and press her lips to his before dissipating into tendrils of green vapor. His knees quiver with the mere effort of standing before the god, sporting a vainglorious expression, lays him out on the bed to recover. A mere flick of his fingers and Loki is clean, not a spot of sweat or spunk on his body. He leaves Clinton to lie, thoroughly debauched, a flush still present over the majority of his body, ejaculate leaking down his thighs.

Hawk blinks unseeingly, his body buzzing pleasantly. There is a faint twinge in his backside — he's not sure he'll ever be fully accustomed to anal penetration — and a sting on his right shoulder. His brow furrows and he tucks his chin, rolling his head in a struggle to discover the source. Whoa. A fresh, bruising bite mark showcasing a damn near full dentation fills his field of view; the skin is broken in a few places and oozing blood. There is a growl of complaint from the remaining remnant of his true self as his head thumps back against the mattress. He scarcely has the time to resign himself to worrying about it later as any residual strength in his body is seized and he falls into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Loki pretty much just knocked him out, the little rascal.
> 
> Anyhow, I have set up a new poll on my profile page at FF.net regarding the future of this story. Feel free to shuffle over to vote and/or contribute via comment. For those who don't want to make the trek over, the poll is basically inquiring who you would like to see help Clint through his Stockholm syndrome. Options being Natasha, Coulson, Steve, Tony, Bruce, Thor, Loki, Fury, no one, and he shouldn't recover. Any additional ideas are welcome. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks. Longest update time of the century here..  
> I've actually had a fair bit of this typed up for months. I just didn't have it at a good end point. I'm still not particularly pleased with the end, but I want to get this show on the road. That's partially why it's on the shorter side.  
> So. Enjoy?

When he wakes, he's in a different bed, smaller but no less ludicrously exquisite in its making, tucked off into a corner of Loki's space. His king spoils him. Clint rises and stretches with a groan. He hisses as the movement pulls at the now re-opened flesh on his shoulder. A mark to remember all that Loki has done for him.

He shuffles to an adjoined bathroom, stark naked, to tend to his mortal needs. He catches sight of his reflection in the mirror as he moves about and pauses to examine himself. His blue eyes, a slightly different shade than he's used to, sport an impressive glow. They're also a bit bloodshot and his skin is pale. Well his sleep hadn't been the best of late and serving his king did use up a wealth of his energy. His gaze skims over to his shoulder and he traces the mark lightly with his fingers, amazed at the number of individual teeth he can count.

A summons rings through his mind and he realizes the time he's wasted. Clint strides back into Loki's room, finding his clothes laid out for him. He dresses in a hurry and steps out of the room still settling into his boots.

Hawk walks through the maze of halls, instinctually knowing where to find his king as easily as one would follow a trail of breadcrumbs.

Loki is tucked away, once again lost deep in a trance. He leaves with a faint furrow upon his brow and moves to the main room. Soldiers, servants are abustle tending to this and that. He notices Selvig speaking fervently with a man in a SHIELD uniform. There is an air of frustration. Clint approaches, and the worthless minion is sent away to some menial task.

"Put it over there." A pause as the scientist shifts his focus to Barton. "Where did you find all these people?" His voice is somewhat cheery and amused.

"SHIELD has no shortage of enemies, doc," he bites out, entirely uninterested in the idle chatter as he taps away at an abandoned tablet. The substance Selvig needs flashes up on the small screen and he turns it to face the man. "This the stuff you need?"

"Yeah, iridium," the doctor confirms, segueing into an explanation that Barton neither understands nor cares about. "It's found in meteorites and forms anti protons. It's very hard to get a hold of." Sounds sort of like what he heard hanging around R&D at SHIELD.

"Especially if SHIELD knows you need it," he sneers with disdain. Being difficult to find, though, now that's information he could use. He slips into strategizing mode. Between the tablet and, of course, the tesseract, he pieces together the details and has a plan well underway as Loki approaches. His movements are quiet, but Clint can feel his presence, a sort of telltale energy.

"Well, I didn't know!" Selvig notices their king and proceeds to blather on about the tesseract with an indulgent grin; as if Loki was unaware of its greatness. "Hey! The tesseract has shown me so much, it's.. more than knowledge. It's truth."

"I know," Loki is relatively quiet, a somewhat fondly tolerant expression gracing his features. In a split second, he's turned serious and glances sideways at his hawk, "What did it show you Agent Barton?"

"My next target." Business as usual.

"Tell me what you need." Oh, but he sounds pleased and it thrills him like no other.

He looks at Loki, his face a perfect blank mask, before turning and stalking to his bow's case. He opens it with perhaps more force than necessary and takes the bow in hand. "I need a distraction." A firm flick of his arm and the bow unfolds, the string taut and ready. He meets his king's eyes over his shoulder. "And an eyeball."

\-----

Stuttgart, Germany it is. They're wheels down quicker than Barton would've anticipated. He is prepared nonetheless. He feels very little regarding Loki would surprise him at this point. Magic is becoming something of a fixture in his life.

It goes like any other op. He takes point and they easily make their way in. The timing is near perfect, and of course it is with Loki, as the holographic device builds a display of the poor sod's eyeball, still twitching in panic, for the retina scanner. The iridium is as good as theirs.

He almost forgets to miss the sound of Coulson's voice in his ear.

They're wheels up again before Loki has returned and something about that doesn't sit right. There's a pull in his chest, tight and unrelenting. He's not sure if it's the fact that Loki is out of his sight, more than just a matter of meters, or that the appearance of SHIELD makes things hit just a little bit closer to home. Well. His old home. He shirks his misgivings and takes the lead as the lot of them prepare for the next stage of the god's plan.

\-----

Early the next day, they're rehearsed and outfitted for the mission ahead; he hand picks the agents to back him up. Clint barely slept a wink, even with the soothing fog suffusing thick through his mind. It doesn't matter though as he's gone much longer without sleep and in much less hospitable conditions. And still nailed his mark on the mission, thank you very much.

He and his team, they're flying again, honing in on Loki's position and, through him, the helicarrier.

In place, flying parallel to the giant craft, he stands at the open back hatch, bow in hand. One well placed arrow, the slip of his finger over the trigger on his bow. One engine down. Enough to cause plenty of panic and chaos on board. They land on the deck and he directs his team with wordless gestures; they obey without hesitation and they move with well practiced ease.

He feels the slightest tug in the back of his brain; he knows where they must be keeping Loki. However, he has his orders, his duties. He presses on.

It doesn’t take long to reach the bridge. Panic devolves to chaos as his men charge the area. Keeping his distance, he lets loose a well-placed arrow, perfectly aligned to scramble the system. Two engines down. He dodges shots fired at him and retreats. Absently, he’s aware of the danger of staying on an airborne helicarrier with two downed engines for any length of time. But then, he doesn’t plan on staying long.

His return to the jet, and with it, Loki, is interrupted. A familiar flash of flame-bright hair. He looses a few arrows in the scuffle, but their proximity and her agile nature proves them to be a wasted effort. Even using the bow itself as a weapon against her is short lived as she wrenches it from him. No matter. He pulls a knife from a sheath at his hip as they take a moment to reassess. Hand to hand finds him with an elbow wrenched beyond its natural range of motion, though he’s able to toss his knife to his free hand and retaliate.

She dodges, of course.

Grappling over the knife, he pulls her hair, she bites his arm. She flips and propels him headlong into a yellow handrail with chipping paint. He grips at the metal and then the support wire with a groan, stumbling over himself as he fights the disorientation that’s trying to turn his world on end. He makes it to one knee, pausing both from the effort of moving and the sight of Natasha standing over him. His heart wrenches and confusion floods his mind. “Natasha?” He has so many questions, but is unable to voice them, even before her fist comes flying at the side of his head and everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, a whole chapter with no smut. Do I have a fever?  
> Most of it is really just the movie, but from Clint's perspective.  
> Also... what is it with me ending chapters with Clint unconscious. Oops?  
> Now that I'm back into this, I'll see if I can't have an update up in less than a year. OTL


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, again, pretty much just movie from Clint's point of view. Just to show his mindset I guess? I don't know, I'm just kind of rolling with it here.

When he comes to, the world is a blur of nonsensical whitenoise, streaks of bright blue and a steady throbbing in his head. He fights the sensation, physically attempting to shake it off, making all manner of pained noises. His eyes clench shut but the glowing blue haunts him even there. Panic fills his mind and he grows aware that he’s pulling at padded cuffs around his wrists.

Willing his mind to cooperate and actually function, thank you very much, he realizes he must be in medical. He groans with a spike of annoyance. He hates waking up in medical. In spite of himself, he feels a small wave of relief; there’s at least one thing that hasn't changed.

A voice breaks through the static, “Clint, you’re gonna be alright.”

A smooth, wicked chuckle echoes through his mind in response, filling him with a sense of dread followed by a harsh slap of guilt.

“You know that? Is that what you know?” his response is breathy and sounds slightly crazed to his own ears. He can see Natasha get up and move from the corner of his eye. His head rolls back, half to keep her in his sight and half from the sensations coursing through him. “I got.. I got no window. I’ll have to flush him out.” He can hear Nat pouring water and he shifts restlessly on the bed.

“You gotta level out, it’s gonna take time.”

“You don’t understand I.. have you have had someone take brain and play?” He’s staring at the ceiling, his eyes open but unseeing. “Pull you out and stuff something else in?” His eyes roll back to stare at his Natasha, “You know what it’s like to be unmade?”

Her reply is level and steady as she turns to look at him, “You know that I do.”

That sends a jolt through him. Of course she does. A wave of nausea washes over him as he remembers sharing all of her secrets, every little thing that he’d been entrusted with to Loki. He needs to change the subject. “Why am I back? How’d you get him out?” his words feel like they’re stumbling over one another as they pour from his mouth. He can taste the desperation on his tongue.

“Cognitive recalibration. I hit you really hard in the head,” she states matter of factly. She looks slightly smug as she sits on the edge of his bed.

He sounds breathless, “Thanks.” She’s undoing the cuffs securing his wrists to the bed. He almost wants to tell her to stop. Steadfastly ignoring the bright flashes of blue in his periphery, he presses on, throat tight around his words, “Natasha.. how many agents did I..” 

“Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself Clint,” she abruptly cuts him off, trying to yank him back from that particular train of thought. “This is Loki. This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for.”

That name sparks within his mind. “Loki. He get away.” The phrase is a question but his tone is not. Of course he got away. He has no doubt that the god was capable of giving them the slip.

“Yeah. Don’t suppose you know where.”

He shakes his head with a faint sound that under any other circumstance may have been a chuckle. “Didn't need to know. Didn't ask.” Nat’s moving away from him again, this time to look out the small window in the door. He moves to sit up and hefts his legs over the side of the bed, his boots thunking solidly upon the floor. The cup beside his bed catches his sight and he picks it up; his mouth feels like cotton. “He’s gonna make his play soon though. Today.”

“We gotta stop him,” she turns back to him, her intent clear.

“Yeah. Who’s we?”

“I don’t know. Whoever’s left.”

She must be desperate. He nods faintly. “Well I.. if I put an arrow through Loki’s eye socket, I’d sleep better I suppose.” He says it because it’s true. It should be true. He huffs. Why does he feel like it would only make him feel worse? That sick snickering sound crowds in the back of his mind. Natasha, at least, sounds convinced.

“Now you sound like you.”

She sitting by his side again as he mulls the situation over. He turns his head to look at her, better than looking at the floor. “But you don’t.” Maybe not, his eyes fall back to his feet. “You’re a spy, not a soldier. And now you want to wade into a war. Why?” He’s looking in her direction again, but his eyes just can’t stay settled on one spot. “What did Loki do to you?”

“He didn't just..” she trails off, looking away, and his heart sinks.

His voice is quiet, almost not even there, “Natasha..”

“I've been compromised,” she finally says, gaze leveling up.

He nods with a small sound, mouth moving into a tense line. She doesn't know just how compromised she’s been. If only she knew what he’d told Loki. Or perhaps she does. Did Loki tell her how he’d betrayed her?

“I got red in my ledger. I’d like to wipe it out.”

He looks at her, something heavy weighing down his chest. Normally this would be where he tells her about his troubles or cracks a joke. Clint can’t find it in him to even try for normalcy. She doesn't seem to be surprised, however, as he silently rises and moves into the adjoining bathroom. There’s really nothing in the way of privacy with the grate-like nature of the walls but he feels sweaty and grimy and he needs a moment away from her piercing eyes.

Digging around, he surfaces with a towel and wipes his exposed skin roughly before changing gears and splashing water on his face. He can see bright points of blue behind his eyelids as he holds the towel over his face. It falls away and he stares at his reflection for a solid minute. He careful tugs aside what passed for a sleeve on his black tactical suit. Loki's bite, glaring an angry red, comes into view. He states at it in the mirror, caught in a slight daze. As he moves to touch it, he catches sight of movement behind him.

"Clint! That.. did Loki do that?" Of course it's Natasha. His frayed nerves calm some. Still, he sharply yanks his clothing back into place.

"Nat..," he warns in a low, weary voice.

"No, what else did he -"

"Nothing I couldn't handle," he snaps out. He has to cut her off, can't bear to hear more. Loki only took what he was entitled to. And there goes his brave face, a little stony but otherwise effective. He's sure Nat can see through it, she must. She knows him too well not to. But she doesn't press him. They don't have the time to address just how fucked up he is, to discuss just how deeply Loki rooted himself.

He doesn't miss the disturbed look on her face as she backs out of the bathroom, the door clicking shut again. A heavy, ragged sigh falls from him as he grips the sides of the sink with his hands, head hanging between his shoulders. He can hear the door to the hall open and for a moment he thinks Natasha is leaving.

“Time to go.” It’s a voice he’s heard, but he can’t place it. He turns, needing to get eyes on the newcomer.

Nat’s voice rings out, “Go where?”

“I’ll tell you on the way. Can you fly one of those jets?”

He’s pulling the door open, ignoring the faint complaint from the metal. “I can.” Stepping through the doorway, towel in his hands, he doesn't miss the look from Captain America or the silent conversation between him and Natasha. Twist that knife a bit deeper, huh?

At least he seems to respect Tasha’s judgement. Or maybe he’s just too desperate to question it. “You got a suit?”

“Yeah,” he nods, drying his hands, his voice a mere whisper.

“Then suit up.” And with that the star spangled man is gone. He and Nat are roused to action and within minutes he’s changing from black fatigues to his Hawkeye suit, securing his quiver on his back and gathering up his bow.

Neither Natasha nor Steve mention his prior compromised state and they’re soon hi-jacking a quinjet. Stark is rocketing ahead of them as they make their escape.

Natasha co-pilots for him, arming the guns and shooting down the chitauri within their path. Loki and Thor are going at it on Stark’s lavish balcony. The sound of the jet and a few shots draws attention and Loki fires at them. The jet lurches and tilts dangerously. He guides the jet between buildings as it falls, wobbling, unerringly to the earth. The landing is rough but the three of them are soon up and running, barreling out of the jet’s back hatch.

“We gotta get back up there,” he hears Steve call back to them. Of course, he thinks with a grunt. Loki is up there. Wait what? He forces the thought from his head, bow in hand as he and Nat take off after Rogers.

They watch as a horrifying, hulking thing emerges from the portal. The numbers accompanying it are staggering. Spurned into action, they brace themselves behind an overturned vehicle, waiting for the army they know is coming their way. He sees civilians trapped and points them out. Rogers looks ready to run in after them, of course he does, because he’s Captain freaking America. Nat assures him that they’re good, they have it covered.

“You think you can hold ‘em off?”

He fixes his sharp gaze on the man. Loki may be a foggy spot in his mind, but innocents are clear cut; they need to be saved. “Captain,” his fingers deftly dial up the appropriate arrow tip, “It would be my genuine pleasure.” This is good. This is what comes naturally for him. Nock, pull, breath, release.

He and Nat make their way to a bus full of people. She covers while he helps them climb out a window. The process is taking too long and he opts to pry open the door to free the rest of them. They move on. It’s just like any other mission. Take out the bad guys, stay alive.

“Just like Budapest all over again,” he hears Nat call to him.

Really? He frowns, loosing a few arrows. “You and I remember Budapest very differently.” The banter is good. It keeps the pain in his chest from overtaking him. The alien army encroaches and they’re grappling with them. Captain’s back, he notices, and soon after Thor makes a showy appearance. Handy lightning. He’s collecting arrows when he catches the conversation.

“I have unfinished business with Loki.”

“Yeah? Well get in line,” he almost doesn't know he’s speaking until the words have passed his lips. He resumes tidying his reclaimed arrows, his mind half torn between the current situation and the trickster responsible for this mess.

The rumble of a bike brings Dr. Banner to them. Stark is leading one of those giant beasts their way and that’s.. concerning. The Hulk makes a well-timed appearance and he’s moving to take cover at the edge of a toppled car. The beast dealt with, the six of them are back to back. They certainly look like a team now don't they? His eyes scour the sky, his bow drawn. He can’t admit to himself that he’s keeping a close eye out for a certain green-eyed god.

There’s more of those aliens pouring into their world and Cap begins doling out the orders, “Barton. I want you on that roof. Eyes on everything. Call out patterns and strays. Stark, you got the perimeter. Anything gets more than three blocks out, you turn it around or you turn it to ash.”

He looks at Iron Man. Seems like a logical option. “You wanna give me a lift?”

“Right. Better clench up Legolas.” He approaches, grabs him and they’re off. It’s an exhilarating way to travel, that’s for sure.

He’s dropped at his perch and the suit is gone. Clint doesn't waste any time getting to work, firing off arrows and doing what he does best: observe. “Stark. You got a lot of strays sniffing your tail.” He doesn't miss a beat, nock, pull, breath, release, nock, pull, breath release.

“Just trying to.. keep ‘em off the streets.”

“Well they can’t bank worth a damn.” He takes a blind shot, possibly showing off a bit, but it’s been a long week, he deserves to be a bit showy. “Find a tight corner.”

“I will, roger that.”

He slips back into the routine, taking out targets, staying alive. A chitauri manages to sneak it’s way up the side of the building, all the way up to ledge where he’s perched. He shoots the damn thing in the face. A firmly lodged arrow in the back of the pilot's head sends one of the flying ships spiraling down. Still no sign of Loki. Civilians, on the other hand, are plentiful. “Cap there’s a bank on 42nd past Madison. They cornered a lot of civilians in there.”

“I’m on it.”

“Hawkeye,” he hears Nat’s call for his attention.

He finds her on the back of one of those creatures, the alien ship hurtling between buildings. “Nat, what are you doing?” he’s fascinated and concerned all at once.

“Uhh. A little help.” Loki is trailing her.

Sure thing. A button on his bow, a fresh arrow. “I got him,” he assures her, loosing the arrow. It flies true and.. the damn bastard catches it out of the air. Of course he does. And with that smug look no less. Another button on his bow and the thing explodes in his face. Barton swallows down the threat of bile rising in his throat. The small sense of relief he feels as he sees Loki roll onto Stark’s balcony is almost as sickening.

He forced from his internal dissonance as a chitauri appears behind him. It has an arrow in it before it can do any damage. Reaching for another arrow, he has a fleeting moment of panic; he usually realizes before he runs out of arrows. Resorting to using his bow as a weapon, he takes on a second chitauri before kicking the thing off the roof. A glance to the sky shows more incoming and he reclaims his arrow. Grappling hook. A button on his bow and he’s jumping of the rooftop, twisting in the air to fire the arrow back at the building. _Please work, please work,_ he finds himself chanting in his head. The grappling hook was great, but things had to work out just so for it to be beneficial. He reaches the end of the line and swings into the building, feet first into the glass. He rolls in on to his back amidst the spray of glass shards, his quiver digging into his back. He’s definitely going to be feeling that one, he ponders absently with a groan. He lies there, unable to move for a short time. He can hear the commotion outside and the chatter on the comms. A way to close the portal. A nuke. They’re having all the fun without him, he muses silently, rolling to sit up. Stark seems to have toted the nuke through the portal. Portal is closed. He makes his way to a window in time to see the thing shrink up and close just as a figure falls through. Iron Man. Lucky bastard.

\-----

He pushes his way right up front when they reach Stark's penthouse suite. He's exhausted but this.. this is important. Loki’s turning and he draws his bow. It’s what’s expected of him. And he wants to show defiance to his god. Is that right? Clint fights the urge to physically shake his head in a search for clarity.

They take the battered god into custody. And, jeez, remind him to never cross the Hulk. Thor produces some unusual cuffs and a sort of muzzle. They’re odd and mysterious but strangely effective. It feels like hours later that Stark is dragging them to some food joint he spotted while zipping about the city. Shawarma. Whatever the heck that is. It turns out to be meat on a stick. He could have fun with that and usually he would, but they’re all exhausted and his mind is feeling a bit raw. He can’t even tell if it’s the battle, the proximity of Loki, or something else entirely. Nevertheless, he humors Stark and munches away at the food. It’s not bad. He may actually enjoy the taste of it, if only he could lose the taste of dirt and blood. His leg is propped up on Natasha’s chair, the closeness that is normally welcome and soothing sets him on edge. Barton forces down the meal, chewing lethargically, and leaves at the earliest opportunity.

Nat tries to follow but a minute shake of his head and she stays put. Needing space is something she understands, though he doesn't miss the look of concern in her eyes. This isn't normal for them post-mission. But then again, what about this mission has been normal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to get beyond the movie next chapter. If you have any thoughts on what you might like to see happen, leave a comment. I don't have much of an actual direction for this story. He could work his way back to being with Loki (whether he stay evil or switch sides to be good), could get help from one or more of the team (Coulson, etc included) to overcome his Stockholm syndrome.


End file.
